The embers of the saint inside of youAre growing as I'm bathing in your glowI'm swallowing the poison of your flowerAnd hanging on the rising of my lowColorful and falling from your mouthLike a painted fever in recoilLike a lie without the pain

On a pillow of your bonesI will lay across the stonesOf your shore until the tide comes crawling backThrow my pillow on the fireMake my bed under the eyeOf your moon until the tide comes crawling back

A waning hand on silver granite waysWill mend my broken limbs and bend my hazeI'm sleeping in the silence of your voiceI'm cradling the peril of my only choiceColorful and falling from your mouthLike a painted fever in recoilLike a lie without the pain

On a pillow of your bonesI will lay across the stoneOf your shore until the tide comes crawlingThrow my pillow on the fireMake my bed under the eyeOf your moon until the tide comes crawling back

Even though the truth can burn inside or fall behindI will wander through your open mindAnd you will find no lie can hideUntil the tide comes crawling